


The Mind of a Lonely Writer

by KlockWork_Proxy



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:40:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26993065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KlockWork_Proxy/pseuds/KlockWork_Proxy
Summary: My name is Proxy. I'm the proxy of time here and I, for one, am not good at writing. But as my mind rests blank without an idea or worry in the world. Apathy and emptiness hold me tight but not as tight as anxiety. But I have to remind myself, sometimes not all stories come from me alone.





	The Mind of a Lonely Writer

I wasn’t sure what to think as my mind raced empty. No thoughts came to mind, not an idea for something to draw and write. Sure, my mind was always open but even then ideas always filled them with ideas of a world, unlike my own corrupted reality. 

My reality was harsh and broken. My mind is beaten over and over again with thoughts to destroy myself or others yet I never did. I rolled with the punches but in this case the harsh words and looked sent my way. From glares and sad ones, I didn’t care. I just wanted to be free and wander my worlds in peace. 

Worlds where I’m a hero protecting a city called “Safe Haven” and I’m the leader of the oracle but I’ve already been through that over and over again. I wonder why I haven’t typed away at my computer putting the story into paper, in this case, into the computer. 

That’s when I remembered, I’m just a silly child trying to make it through High School with dreams to write stories no one has heard and create art no one has seen. That’s such a silly dream though, to be honest with me. 

How can I do something so silly when I can’t even take care of myself, I laugh at myself every time I say that because it’s true. I barely sleep and eat only because anxiety has a tight grasp around my neck causing me to drown in it. 

Even when I do break free from the chains of anxiety, it seems the same thing will continue to come back, always. Like a dog after throwing a toy away only to find the dog back with the said back in its mouth.

I know I sound like an idea, writing out something dealing with emotions that don’t matter to people who I don’t even know. It's certainly no one would care for a lonely soul as my own yet I still try. That’s quite silly, isn’t it? 

So here I sit, in choir typing away in my free time, never having an idea outside of the jail children call the school. It’s not like me to write end on end, but I have to remember that not all stories come from myself.

**Author's Note:**

> I rant to myself more than others but it seems sometimes a pen can be your worst enemy as well. 
> 
> ~Proxy TK


End file.
